


Imaginary Friends

by Jadenite



Series: Past, Present, Future. [3]
Category: Longmire (TV), Walt Longmire Mysteries - Craig Johnson
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Growing Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26786779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadenite/pseuds/Jadenite
Summary: The year was 1976, and Wally hated it when ma and dad argued.
Series: Past, Present, Future. [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1938205
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Imaginary Friends

# Absaroka, Wyoming: 1976

Wally hated it when ma and dad argued. It didn’t happen so often, which meant whenever there were raised voices and creaking floorboards as dads heavy work-boots plodded back and forth, well, he was reminded why he hated it all over again. The noise, it was worse than those darn blue jays screeching at 4 AM in the morning or redheaded woodpeckers pounding on the old hollow oak out back when he was trying to sleep in on the weekends. Wally didn’t like either of those things, or the way ma’s smile was always sad for a long spell, usually lasting a couple of days. Even Sundays, her favorite day, couldn’t perk her back up like it should. His insides got all churned up when ma was sad like that, she should never be blue on Sundays.

It wasn’t right on account of the fact that ma _loved_ Sundays, where she got to celebrate the Lord in the white painted church with other like-minded grown ups and listen to Pastor Mathew Davis sermonize.

_Boy howdy!_ Ma’d be gussying up for hours in the bathroom listening to Judy Garland on the radio while dad read the newspaper in the living room. She’d come out in her fine pearl earrings and necklace and the nice blue dress she didn’t usually wear, looking pretty as a Georgian peach. She didn’t go to the trouble often, not if it was just them ma, dad, and him in the house.

On those days Dad would look up, a rare smile breaking across his serious face and whistle. It would be all low and appreciative like and ma would turn pink in the face and smile so hard it looked like it might hurt.

Wally liked afternoons like that, even if he wasn’t particularly thrilled to be seated on hard wood-pews and shut indoors for a full two-hour long sermon on days when the sun was shining and the wind was blowing through the summer grass. He'd rather enjoy the Lords creation with his hands in the dirt and his face in the wind, catching frogs by the creeks and lightening fast blue-bellies that lazed on the rocks. But it wasn't the fog and lizard catching that had got him into steep-waters, it was the _talking_.

It made it a whole lot worse; that all the fussing was over him and something he may or may not have asked ma about, like when he’d needed new boots. His feet wouldn’t fit, not matter how hard he tried, it just wasn’t going to cut out the way he wanted. He hard prayed real hard to stop growing up so fast, unsurprisingly it didn’t take. Maybe then ma could just _‘make it to the end of the week,’_ tips were always better on the weekends.

Folks were happier, and happy folks tipped well, that was just how it was. _‘Things are a little tight right now hon, but it’ll be okay,’_ was what ma had said, brushing his shaggy hair back and kissing his cheek. His dad would have ma cut it before the school year started up; he wasn’t a _hippie_ after all.

He had forgotten the agreement he and his friend had made.

“It is decided. Neither of us will speak of this with our family,” Howling Wolf had said, they had shook on it and everything; it had been a proper gentlemen’s agreement. Something that he’d taken a moment to explain to Howling Wolf, for he’d never heard it put like that before.

Wally had broken the pact, he hadn’t meant to, but here he was, outside and blue, with his parents arguing about him and his _‘invisible friend.’_

Ma was concerned about him; she only reached that pitch when she was concerned about one thing or another. She wanted to make him see a _“specialist”,_ and while he didn’t know what that meant dad’s face had screwed up really tight like he’d bitten out of a lemon with a bloody lip, deepening the lines on his weathered, sun-reddened face.

Wally suspected, no, he knew, all this was about him slipping up in the kitchen, talking to ma while she chopped vegetables with the cleaver knife and he set the utensils on the dining table.

He’d mentioned his friend, he’d asked if the Indian kids from _the Rez_ could go to the district school, or if they had to stay on the reservation one. Ma had told him she didn’t see why they couldn’t go to the Absaroka schools – if they wanted. Ma became instantly curious about why he wanted to know, and it had just slipped out.

“Why? Did you meet a boy from _the Rez_ Wally? What’s his name?” ma had asked, sounding excited that he’d mad a new friend. He knew she didn’t much care for the Davis boys, Jim and Jack. To be honest he didn’t either, but they palled around sometimes. But he usually got in trouble, if he stuck with them to long. Which was funny, in a way, them being the Pastors boys and all. They were _alright_ , Wally supposed – at least they didn’t set fires like the Truman twins, Sam and Sid. By that comparison they were veritable saints.

But still not the sort ma wanted him hanging out with. She’d said so to dad who had grunted and turned the page on his newspaper, saying the famous catch all, _‘boys will be boys.’_

Wally had heard that one all his life, and it still didn’t make sense. So, he understood her excitement, and regretted having opened the door to this conversation. There was no weaseling out now – not without lying and that wasn’t something he could do to ma.

“Well, he’s not from _the Rez_ , not like you mean it, but he’s Cheyenne, keeps to himself,” Wally had finally admitted, watching the clouds drift by through the open window.

That, at least, was the truth he figured. Howling Wolf was _Cheyenne_ , and to hear him tell it most of the boys his own age didn’t much like him, which didn’t make a lick of sense to Wally who liked him plenty. There were times when Wally really wished he could just pull the older boy fully into _his_ time, where kids got detention for throwing rocks and adults got locked up in the old jail.

“And where would I stay, in this world of yours, hmm?” Howling Wolf had gently asked him once, poking him in the shoulder, “and what would I say to my mother and Little Fox who would both miss me?”

Wally never had a good answer to that, and so he never tried.

“Stay with _me_ ,” Wally wanted to say, but that wasn’t enough. Howling Wolf had a mother and aunt who doted on him, who would miss him, the same as he expected ma and dad would miss him.

But there were times when Howling Wolf had black bruises on his ribs the size of a mans fist, or gasped to hard from gentle nudging, and Wally just _knew_ not everyone was like his mother the clever Swift Coyote and gentle Little Fox.

“What a curious way of putting it, Wally! Not how I mean it? Where is he from then?” ma had asked, getting a little irritated with his non-answers. He had shrugged, drawn back into the present.

He’d caved, like a sandcastle on the seashore.

“Far as I can tell he’s from the past,” and with confessions that, the Troubles had started.

Because everyone knew boys from the past didn’t just pop in to Absaroka County for conversation and cookies. It was impossible, which he was told in numerous and increasingly colorful ways. Magic rocks didn’t exist, and there wasn’t a single Cheyenne boy on _the Rez_ by the name of Howling Wolf. Ma knew this because she’d made inquires, whatever that meant.

None of this surprised Wally like it did ma. Howling Wolf did not live on _the Rez_. He lived on the rugged untamed frontier plains of Wyoming, long before Urbanization and Manifest Destiny took hold. He was living every boy’s fantasy, or so it seemed, sleeping under the wide-open skies, hunting, and fishing, and not being stuck inside stuffy classrooms for hours and hours of _schooling_. To Wally It sounded like a good way to live. The best, really.

He hadn’t meant to say anything at all to his ma, he really hadn’t, but denying his friend didn’t seem right either, even if it was all a bit strange with the magic and whatnot. He knew he shouldn’t have mentioned it, Howling Wolf warned him it would go badly.

“This is unusual – even by my standards, Wally,” Howling Wolf had patiently explained with a look that said his standards for the unusual were awful high.

“People cannot often accept things that are outside of what they are used to, this strangeness can cause fear and misunderstanding.”

Wally liked that about the older boy, his patience and understanding. He could sit still for hours, listening, teaching him his own language, or saying nothing at all. Howling Wolf wasn’t like the boys he knew, he was somehow different. Wally had said as much once. Howling Wolf had become very quiet after, not the usual content quiet, but the wistful kind, with sad eyes. He never wanted to cause _that look_ again so he never mentioned it; all the little ways his friend was different. He liked it, it made him special, but he kept it to himself.

Special didn’t always mean was it was supposed to, he’d learned that much watching the school bullies shove around the kids they didn’t like, the ones that didn’t fit in like the rest because they talked funny or didn’t do what the other kids did. So he didn’t say a word.

Which is what he should have done from the start to avoid this mess. Keep his mouth shut. If he’d done that ma and dad wouldn’t be arguing and he wouldn’t have this awful cherry pit growing in his stomach. No use fretting now, the barn door was open and the horses were out.

Darn it all, Howling Wolf had been right.

Wally kicked a rock, watching it tumble its way through the dirt. He should have figured, his friend usually was _right_.

He didn’t have to lean at the door or window to listen to what his parents were saying; he could hear it plain as day sitting on the tire-swing hitched to the tree out back, swaying back and forth as he waited to see what would happen. Ma usually got her way, if only because she so rarely put her foot down over things that dad just couldn’t say no.

Well, he was saying _‘no’_ now, very loudly.

“No son of mine is going to see one of those -- those looney-toons!” dad said, “He’s a good boy with a good head on his shoulders. There’s nothing wrong with him but a bit of imagination. Give him more work to do and he’ll be to tired to dream up Indian friends that don’t exist.”

Wally winced, he bit his lip to keep from hollering: “he does to exist, and he’s my best friend!”

He knew a lost cause when he heard it. Talking, it was what had gotten him in this mess, so he kept quiet and kept swinging, back and forth, back and forth until the sun disappeared behind the mountains and ma called him into the house.

************

Three days later Wally and Howling Wolf said goodbye by the river and the magic rock, and it was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. He was selfishly glad that Howling Wolf was the one to broach the subject. He understood the older boys reasoning, he really did, but that didn’t make the hurt lesser.

Howling Wolf may not have looked much older than him but there was wisdom to him that boys Wally’s age lacked. He wore it like a heavy mantle that was slowly cast aside as they had grown closer throughout the year. But that time was over now, they said their farewells. He couldn’t even pretend he’d see a glimpse of him around town because he knew he wouldn’t. Howling Wolf was gone forever; and with him the magic the older boy had brought with him into Wally’s life, which was now contained to the borders of his yard and the county line. And it had less to do with funny rocks and in-between world spaces than the simple joy of having someone who understood, a friend. That was the real magic of it all to Wally.

But now it was over.

Wally regretted his hasty decision the moment it was said. He didn’t want to grow up, not if it meant never seeing his friend again. But it was to late by then, the magic was gone, and so to was Howling Wolf.

Late at night, when everyone else was asleep, Wally slipped out the window and lay down in the backyard, the grass soft and wet against this back and stared up at _the Pleiades_.

He thought of the story Howling Wolf had told him, the seven pups that went to the stars and smiled. _Somewhere_ , _some-when_ Howling Wolf was doing the same, looking heavenward, and he felt a little bit less alone. No matter how far or where or when, they were looking at the same stars that had lit the night skies since the _beginning_ and would do so until _the end_.

************

Wally never again spoke of Howling Wolf to ma, she wouldn’t understand, and it was too painful now. The loss of Howling Wolf was a sore bruise – still healing -- and speaking of him was like poking at it, making it ache for no good reason.

Dad was waiting from him when he came home from school a few days after he and his friend parted ways. The way dad stood there in the middle of the room, not looming, but just standing, big as life, made Wally uneasy. He hadn’t talked, not for some time, not about _his friend_ leastwise. So he didn’t know what this was about. He let his backpack slide off his shoulder as he stepped further into the room.

“Wally, son, take a seat,” dad said, and his tone was grave and serious, on top of that it was Monday.

Dad should have been at work on a Monday, but he wasn’t. He was here, having a talk with _him_. On a Monday.

Wally frowned.

There was no way this was a good thing.

“Son, you were worrying your ma with this talk – now I know you don’t mean it that way, you’re a good boy, you don’t mean to cause that, but you need to keep your head on your shoulders and not in the clouds. You’re growing up, see, and young men don’t have imaginary friends,” dad said, after sitting him down on the couch while ma was out with her book club friends.

Dad said it as kindly as he knew how, the way he talked with baby animals and spooked horses, but the chiding stung. As did the idea that he wasn’t being the son he aught to be.

“You understand, Wally?” dad asked, his large hand a gentle pressure that sank him into the couch cushions.

“Yes, sir,” Wally responded.

He paused, his thumbs stuck in his jeans loop, rocking lightly on his heels, “Uh, it’s Walter, now, dad.”

Dad threw back his head, chortling loudly, slapping him hard on the back, “Alright then son, alright then.”

And that was it, the chapter closed on _Wally Longmire_.

************

The years passed and with them Walter’s memory faded out, it wasn’t real he told himself, Howling Wolf didn’t exist because _magic_ didn’t exist. Simple. He had made it all up in his head, just like the specialist he’d seen – just the once – said. It took a long time, but finally he faced the facts, the Cheyenne Indian he’d made up had never _really_ existed. He touched every rock in the yard, and a few besides, but nothing happened. He never looked up to see a pair of curious dark eyes staring back at him.

He looked at his _Indian & Cowboy_ set and told himself he had lost the red Indian Brave, he hadn’t given it away. How would he? That was impossible, imaginary friends couldn’t accept gifts. He looked for hours for it, but it never cropped up and eventually he had to give it up as a lost cause.

“There’s no cause for alarm, these things happen with young boys with active imaginations,” Mr. Young, the specialist, had promised his parents, “there’s nothing wrong with young Wally.”

He hated how the man talked to them, when he was sitting right _there_. As if he were invisible, too. Thankfully he only had to go the one time, dad had been grumbling and irritated the whole time.

Ma had stopped fretting after that, and dad had never been waiting from him on a Monday after school again. All of which suited him fine.

Life went on.

************

The boy who had caught frogs in the creek became the young man Walter who read more books than any boy in his class, and then, one fine day when he chanced to look up from under the shade of an apple tree over his battered, dog-eared copy of _White Fang_ he saw _her_.

_Martha._

…and the rest was history.

**Author's Note:**

> Authors Note: _Dear Readers,_
> 
> For those who are interested in the SOTS world...
> 
> Having a bit of a writing slump. 
> 
> I'm not sure if this is "okay" or "terrible" but it fills in a few gaps.
> 
> Enjoy?!


End file.
